


Gusto

by shell



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-13
Updated: 2005-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 05:31:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shell/pseuds/shell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aliens make them make spanikopita.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gusto

**Author's Note:**

> Beta thanks to Panisdead, Cathexys, and Brighid, with bonus thanks to Kat Allison for the goulash recipe.

The first time they encountered a new race of potential allies was always fraught with peril; you never knew if something was going to go staggeringly wrong. Fortunately, so far the Hrana seemed blissfully normal, at least if you ignored the spots.

John forcibly dragged his mind back to the topic of conversation. This was really not the time to be thinking about whether the Hrana's unique spots were like zebras' stripes. Only multicolored.

"Wait a minute. They want us to do _what_?" Rodney asked.

"Their welcoming ritual requires new allies to prepare a meal," Teyla explained.

"Okay," John drawled. "Ronon, Teyla said that one deer-looking… thing…" he waved his hand in a vague approximation of antlers, "was edible, right? Why don't you shoot one, and we'll have fake-venison steaks cooking up before you know it." Then again, maybe that one thing in the corner of the room was a fridge, complete fake-venison steaks. That would be great.

"Perhaps I was not clear," Teyla interjected. "There is a specific meal that the Hrana wish guests to make, their sacred dish. It involves cheese, a thin pastry, and a local green, along with generous quantities of milk-fat. It requires some delicacy in the preparation."

John looked at her, dismayed. A grill he could handle, but this sounded a lot more complicated. He switched his look to hopeful. "Delicacy? I don't suppose you--"

"I prepared the dish myself years ago, when I first visited this world. It would be inappropriate for me to make it again," she answered, the barest hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

So that was the way she was going to play it. Fine. "Okay," he said again. "We'll figure it out. How hard can it be?" He'd made lasagna before. Yeah, he'd used Ragu instead of making his own sauce, but the girl he'd made it for seemed happy enough with the results. He could do this. He was the team leader, after all.

An hour later he was feeling kind of desperate, because while chopping things that looked suspiciously like green onions was doable (although they made his eyes water even more than the real thing), especially with some help from Ronon and his very large knife, now there were supposed to be layers, and then there was something he was supposed to do with a brush and the melted milk-fat (might as well just call it butter). Meanwhile, Ronon had disappeared, Teyla had that very amused smile on her face, Rodney was scowling, and no one was _helping_. How had he ended up stuck with this job? Wasn't he the leader of his team? Had he forgotten how to delegate?

"Oh for--move over, Colonel, before you cause some sort of intergalactic incident." Rodney hip-checked him away from the counter, his fingers brushing John's as Rodney took the brush away from him.

"What are you talking about, McKay?"

"Just that it's painfully obvious you've never worked with phyllo before."

"With what?"

"Phyllo. Phyllo dough?" Rodney made some sort of rolling gesture. "Yes, yes, I realize that's not what they call it on this planet, but spanakopita is spanakopita even in the Pegasus galaxy, although it is taking the whole parallel evolution thing just a bit too far."

"Spinach pie," John said wonderingly. "We're making intergalactic spinach pie." Just when you thought you'd seen it all, they threw you another curve ball.

"It took you this long to figure that out?" Rodney asked derisively. "If you would get out of my way, we might still have a hope of seeing the Ancient temple with the interesting energy signature before the sun sets on this miserable planet."

With that, he deftly separated three sheets of intergalactic phyllo, placed them in the pan, and quickly brushed them with butter. John stared at Rodney's hands as he worked, fascinated and more than a little turned on.

He'd had no idea cooking could be that sexy.

He'd never seen Rodney cook before, but he had noticed Rodney's hands. The way he typed fascinated John--quickly, fingers moving like a pianist, concentration totally focused on the screen. His hands were square, the fingers blunt, yet he handled Ancient machinery with great precision. And target practice--even when Rodney was having an off day, dropping clips or unable to hit the broad-side of a barn, John still got turned on like crazy, hoping his BDUs would hide what the sight of Rodney's hands did to him. When Rodney did well, loading and reloading and hitting the bulls-eye, John went directly back to his room to jerk off.

But this--this was new. This was hot. Really hot. By the time McKay (maybe there was a reason McKay always called him Colonel, because sometimes a little distance was a good thing) was making careful cuts across the top of the dish (holy shit, the way he used that knife) and then drizzling the rest of the butter over it, John had to turn away and surreptitiously adjust himself.

He didn't think anyone had noticed. McKay was pretty focused on making sure the oven was at the right temperature before putting the pan in, and everyone else was busy staring at McKay.

"What?" said McKay. He was finally satisfied that the pan was in the exact geographical center of the oven--he'd made John measure its dimensions earlier--and he'd turned around to catch them all staring.

John had no idea what to say--he was busy concentrating on keeping his mouth closed and telling his dick to settle down. Fortunately Teyla came to the rescue.

"We are merely surprised," she said. "I had no idea you were so skilled in food preparation, Dr. McKay."

"Oh, please," McKay replied. "Anyone who knows their way around a chem lab can follow a recipe. It's all chemical reactions anyway--bonds, applying heat, combining the complementary materials in the right order and amount. You should try Zelenka's goulash sometime," he added. "He has to get the meniscus just right on the beef broth, of course, and it took him some work to figure out the exact measurements, since his grandmother's recipe was horribly imprecise, but after careful experimentation he's managed to perfect it. Pity we don't have reliable access to good paprika here--the last time he made it was back at McMurdo."

John stared at him some more. Zelenka made goulash? With real beef broth? He'd never had goulash before and wasn't completely sure what it was, but it sounded a lot better than the crap from the mess. But he still didn't get why McKay could cook.

"You like MREs!" he exclaimed. "And hospital food!"

McKay nodded, looking at him like he was an idiot, not that that was anything new. "That doesn't mean I don't appreciate well-prepared cuisine, Colonel. You never know if someone's going to slip some citrus into a gourmet dish, though, do you? I'd rather eat something with guaranteed ingredients than have my trachea fuse shut because some idiot chef thinks orange juice makes a great glaze."

Ronon suddenly reappeared, clutching a drumstick--where the hell had he gotten that? "Goulash?" he said. "What's that?"

Half an hour later, the scent of the baking intergalactic spinach pie filled the room. It smelled really, really good. John was starting to regret not bringing anything more substantial than a powerbar to snack on, because the Hrana had carefully explained that, while their potential allies were to prepare and serve the sacred dish, they were not permitted to actually eat it. Only those accepted by the Hrana could eat the sacred dish, and how well they prepared the sacred dish was what determined whether they would be accepted, which worked out to mean no one got to taste the sacred dish until their second visit. It all had to do with kinship, apparently; John was sure Dr. Jackson back at the SGC would be fascinated.

John took another bite of his power bar and scowled, his stomach rumbling. This sucked. That Ancient temple with the mysterious power signature better have something special. Like a ZPM. A ZPM might just make this all worth it. Maybe. If it were fully charged. "How much longer, McKay?"

"Another 30 minutes, if the oven is working properly," he answered absently. He was busy entering something into his laptop and didn't seem affected by the aroma.

"Aren't you hungry?"

"I was, but I ate an MRE. Meatloaf."

An MRE. Of course McKay had thought to bring an MRE along. He probably had a couple more stashed in his pack, but John wasn't desperate enough to ask. He finished his powerbar and went back to waiting, trying to ignore both the aroma and his memory of Rodney's hands and that knife.

There was no timer, so Rodney had to keep checking the oven, but finally he pronounced the sacred dish ready. This announcement was followed by a stately ceremonial dance, complete with special flutes and drums. By the time the Hrana, who'd invited Teyla to join them at the table, had slowly and respectfully eaten Rodney's sacred dish and pronounced it acceptable, the sun had finally finished setting.

"You may return at sunrise to examine the Temple of the Ancients," the head Hrana, who had delicate lavender spots, proclaimed. "We thank you for your rendition of the Sacred Dish, and we will welcome you back at sunrise."

"Thanks," John said. "We'll see you then."

They walked back to the puddlejumper. "Sunrise, that's when again?" he asked McKay.

"Three days," McKay snapped. "You'd think with a planetary rotation that slow, they'd actually let people do things at night, but, oh, no, the Temple must only be entered at sunrise the morning after the sharing of the Sacred Dish. We'd better find something more useful than an Ancient food processor."

"Relax, Rodney," John answered, smirking, happy for the chance to get back at him a little. "Three days isn't that long."

McKay snorted, apparently feeling no need to actually comment.

It was only afternoon on Atlantis when they got back, so after they debriefed he let Teyla beat him up with sticks for a while before dinner. At least she didn't beat him as thoroughly as she used to, he thought as he showered. He carefully did not think about Rodney's hands, because he was saving that for later, when he had the time to really explore the memories.

Unfortunately, dinner was the mess' version of chicken pot pie, which bore no actual resemblance to chicken. John suspected its chief ingredient was shoe leather. He picked at his plate glumly, his appetite gone.

McKay suddenly appeared at his side. "What are you doing here?" he asked in an urgent whisper, looking around furtively.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" John retorted. "I'm eating--or trying to, anyway. And why are you whispering?"

"Leave that and follow me. Weren't you listening after the briefing?" Rodney hissed.

"What, to you and Zelenka waxing poetic about goulash?" John had heard that part, about the beef and the potatoes and the garlic. It had sounded great.

"No, you idiot, to our plans to _make_ goulash. Radek managed to bribe someone to smuggle some paprika onto the latest Daedalus run--he even scored some caraway. It arrived while we were gone."

"Wait--are you saying Zelenka made goulash? Real food?" John's voice might have squeaked a tiny bit there, but he'd never admit it.

"Yes, yes; please try to keep up, Colonel. But use some discretion--there's not enough for everyone. You need to come now. Ronon's there with Teyla, and Zelenka says it's almost ready."

That was enough to get John moving. Ronon was a great man in a fight, but you sure didn't want him ahead of you in the mess line. The marines called him Hoover; Ronon accepted the nickname as his rightful tribute, although John suspected he didn't have a clue what it meant.

John arrived just in time to see Zelenka set a mixing bowl full of food in front of Ronon. Ronon took one enormous bite, started to chew, then spit it halfway across the room. Zelenka went white and backed slowly away from the table.

"What is wrong?" Teyla asked, her mouth full.

Ronon's face convulsed in disgust. Who knew the man actually had facial expressions? "_Doianna_," he pronounced.

Further reconnaissance indicated doianna was a Satedan spice reminiscent of caraway. "It is an acquired taste," Teyla said knowingly. "I never acquired it," muttered Ronon around a giant mouthful of mashed potatoes thoughtfully provided by Zelenka.

Teyla, unlike Ronon, was quite a fan, pronouncing goulash similar to a traditional Athosian dish. She and Zelenka spent the rest of the meal discussing what Athosian spices might work as substitutes, Ronon proving unwilling to discuss doianna further.

Rodney excused himself briefly while everyone was getting seconds, returning from the kitchen with a hint of a smirk. He had to be hiding something, but John was enjoying himself too much to care.

John, meanwhile, had decided that Dr. Z was now one of his favorite people. He leaned back in his chair, trying to figure out how much more he could fit in his stomach. He was thinking about going for fourths when he noticed Rodney had left the table again.

He also noticed a new scent wafting out from the kitchen (and how the hell did Zelenka score an apartment with a kitchen, anyway?), rich and sweet and very familiar. It couldn't be--could it?

No one else seemed to notice--Teyla and Dr. Z were still discussing spices, and Ronon had disappeared once he finished his bowl of mashed potatoes--but John couldn't stop sniffing the air. He heard the oven door opening, the aroma got stronger, and John's mouth started watering all over again.

John was just about to get up and investigate when Rodney came out of the kitchen carrying a pan. The pan was steaming gently, and once Rodney put it down on the table John could see what was in it. It looked like brownies. It smelled like brownies. When Rodney cut into the pan and lifted a piece out, the piece was dark brown and moist and unmistakably brownie-like.

Rodney was smiling, and his eyes were very blue as he handed John the very first brownie. His fingers seemed to linger as John took the plate, brushing gently against John's. He didn't look at the brownies at all, just at John. If John didn't know better, he'd almost think Rodney was flirting.

"Oh my god, McKay, these are incredible," he mumbled through a mouthful of the first real chocolate he'd tasted in months. The chocolate bars they got from the SGC were always the military kind, designed not to melt in the desert; they tasted even less like chocolate than the powerbars, and their consistency owed more to chalk than cocoa butter. This, though--this was the real thing, chewy and rich and hot from the oven.

Teyla nodded enthusiastically, having devoured her brownie with almost Ronon-like speed. "Now I understand why you speak of this substance with such reverence. It is truly a sacred food, like the Hrana have. May I have another?"

"Of course," Rodney said, waving his arm expansively. "They're best when they're still warm, after all. Would you like another, Colonel?"

"You're being awfully generous, Rodney," John said suspiciously, accepting his second brownie. It was larger than the first one, and Rodney had served him before giving Teyla her second. Teyla's was much smaller. She looked from her plate to John's and frowned slightly. "It's not like you."

"You wound me, Colonel," Rodney answered, smiling even more broadly. "Why wouldn't I want to share with my teammates?"

"And perhaps it was a condition of your invitation to this meal that you share," Zelenka added.

Rodney's smile suddenly took on a grudging quality. "Which I was happy to do."

"I am not the only one who was able to smuggle in certain supplies, Colonel Sheppard," Zelenka said. "A crate labeled 'batteries', was it not, Rodney?"

McKay nodded. "Batteries supply energy, and so does chocolate." He frowned. "And if anyone breathes a single word about what was really in that crate, the complete contents of their hard drives will become public."

"Relax, Rodney. Your secret is safe with us," John assured him, a hand on his arm.

He felt practically drunk from the food; he didn't think he was capable of moving, and he had to reach down to unbutton the top button of his BDUs. Zelenka belched discreetly, and Teyla hid a smile behind the brownie in her hand. Ronon was snoring on the couch (a kitchen and a couch? Clearly John needed to cultivate more of a friendship with Zelenka), and Zelenka was bringing out coffee. Real coffee.

"You've been holding out on me, Dr. Z," John said. "Maybe I should put you on my team."

"Please, call me Radek," Zelenka said, "and, thank you, but I prefer my lab. Besides, you have Rodney for your adventures," he added, giving John a look he couldn't quite interpret, "and I get far more accomplished when he is busy with you."

That started a friendly argument over whether "adventures" was really the right term; John was unable to convince Radek that their trips offworld were ever anything but terrifying. Teyla eventually woke Ronon up; the two of them left together. Rodney and John stayed to help clean up.

Radek shooed them out after they did the dishes, claiming he had work to do. John suspected the "work" was hiding the leftovers.

Rodney and John ambled down the hallway. John had no destination in mind, and he wasn't sure Rodney did either. He'd finally digested enough to move, and he didn't feel like heading back to his room yet.

"Do you ever wonder about Teyla and Ronon?" Rodney asked, completely out of the blue.

"You mean how they manage to sit down in those pants?" John asked. "Especially after a meal like that?"

Rodney gave him one of his "you're too stupid to live" looks, but it had a bit of amused affection in it, so John decided to let it go.

"No, no, about them. The two of them. You know." Rodney made an energetic gesture with his hands, like a cross between a right hook and milking a cow.

"No, I don't know, McKay. What are you...oh." John figured out the gesture. "Uh, no, I've never wondered." And he hadn't. Not really. If he'd occasionally recognized that the two of them, striking on an individual basis, would look really hot together, well, that wasn't wondering, that was simply not being blind. "They're on my team, you know?" he added, hoping that would satisfy McKay.

"They're on your _team_? What does that have to do with anything?"

"Hello, military?"

"Yes, yes, don't ask, don't tell, but what--oh, you're talking about fraternization."

"Yes, I'm talking about fraternization; what did you think I was talking about?" _Don't ask, Rodney_, John thought ruefully, _and I won't tell._

"We're in a different galaxy, Colonel--do you really think the same rules still apply with the Wraith trying to kill us?"

"I admit we've encountered a few situations I'm sure my superiors never expected." John stopped. McKay was totally missing the point--none of the relationships within his team exactly met the Air Force's guidelines for professional relationships--but none of the other relationships in Atlantis did either. "And just how did you learn to make spanakopita, anyway? McKay isn't exactly a Greek name."

"What, I can't watch the Food Network?" McKay said absently. "Don't change the subject. Do you really think the old rules about fraternization should apply to the Atlantis mission? To our team?"

"Why shouldn't they?" John asked. Yes, team cohesion was important, but the rules were there for a reason, and he was the commanding officer. He had to follow the rules.

"Because we're already too close," Rodney answered. "Ronon and Teyla sleeping together wouldn't change anything."

"What if they broke up? What if they were having a fight, Rodney? Can you honestly say that might not affect their reaction time in an attack?"

"A fight? That's your argument? You and I fight all the time."

"Yeah, but we're not--"

"Please," Rodney interrupted. "It's not as if I wouldn't jump you in a heartbeat if I thought you'd do anything but knock me across the room."

"_What_?"

"Don't worry, Colonel, your heterosexual military masculinity is safe," Rodney said, sounding completely disgusted. "I'm bisexual, not stupid."

"Wait. You're bisexual?" The goulash and brownies should have clued him in--this couldn't be happening. It was awfully realistic for a dream, though--he could smell the coffee and brownies on Rodney's breath.

Rodney's glare was downright poisonous, and he could feel his finger jabbing into his shoulder. It wasn't quite a pinch, but it was enough to convince John that this was really happening. Holy shit.

"My point is," jab, "even if Teyla and Ronon were getting it on," another jab, with added air quotes for "getting it on," "or, in some alternate universe it were the two of us," one more jab, "I seriously doubt it would affect the team. We're a good team."

"The best," John replied automatically. Rodney was bisexual. And wanted to jump him. "Seriously, Rodney, we're a great team."

"Of course we are. Are you deliberately missing the point? Can you seriously say that would change if people started sleeping together?"

John thought about it for a moment. Thought about Teyla and Ronon. Thought about Rodney. About him and Rodney.

"No," he finally admitted.

"No?" Rodney looked as surprised by his answer as he was.

"No, I don't think it would keep the team from functioning. And if it did--we'd figure something out and keep going."

"There, you see? Your military's fraternization rules don't apply after all. Teyla and Ronon could be off having hot monkey sex and it wouldn't hurt a thing."

"Teyla and Ronon, huh? What about you and me?"

Rodney eyed him suspiciously. "What about you and me? You're not about to hit me, are you?"

John rolled his eyes. "No, Rodney, I'm not going to hit you. Why would I hit someone who made me brownies?"

"Okay then." Rodney still looked a little suspicious. "We're cool?" he asked.

"We're good; I'm--"

"Yes, yes, of course you are," he said, exasperated. "We all know how cool Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard is, with his surfboard and his Johnny Cash poster and his hair."

"We're good," John repeated, refusing to be distracted, then leaned in and kissed Rodney.

Rodney jerked back for a second as John's face approached his, then went still. John touched his mouth to Rodney's, a little tentative, because he still wasn't sure he believed this was actually happening. Rodney's lips were chapped, but they were warm, and the coffee and chocolate scent was even stronger this close. Rodney hadn't reacted at all, which was a little weird, but it wasn't like he was pulling away, so John decided to see if Rodney tasted as good as he smelled.

He licked gently at Rodney's bottom lip, and that finally got a reaction. Rodney moaned, opened his mouth, and kissed back in earnest, wrapping his broad hand around the back of John's neck and pulling him closer. God, it was great--better than the brownies. He stepped in, pushing Rodney up against the wall, and he could feel Rodney's erection against his hipbone, and suddenly this was maybe even better than football.

Then Rodney shoved him away. John stumbled a bit, then stepped closer, because, seriously, he wasn't going to stop _now_, not after tasting the inside of Rodney's mouth. That would be stupid, and Rodney was not stupid.

"What are you, _stupid_?" Rodney hissed, sounding horrified, and thwapped John on the shoulder. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"You don't know? I thought you were supposed to be smart," John answered, leaning in again. This was getting annoying. They needed more kissing. Now. Right now.

"Yes, yes, but we're in the hallway. Marines? Caldwell? Court martial?"

Oh. Right.

"You've got a point," John conceded. "My place is closer."

"Fine, your place it is," Rodney said, looking around furtively. "There aren't any security cameras in the hallways, are there?"

"Just lifesigns detectors, as far as I know," John said, grabbing his hand. "Come on--we've only got two and a half days until sunrise."

END


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